A Year of Gold and Rubies
by Warrior of Ice
Summary: A woman who has the power to preserve memories finds that her own are disappearing. AU, R/J, Ficathon 2012 entry


**Prompts:** (1) "I know you are out there right now, not knowing I exist, like a village on the slopes of the volcano of my heart" ( . ?id=806); (2) "The past is never where you think you left it." - Katherine Anne Porter

**A/N**: I'm sorry it's been forever since I've updated anything. The last year has kind of been a mess real-life wise, and it didn't make for great writing time. Hopefully that will be different this year! I'm super busy at the moment, but will do my best to do more writing in the coming months. This is my 2012 Ficathon entry - I also did manage to write some new stuff for Ficathon 2013, so look for that in a couple months (November-ish, I think). As always, Ficathon is **fantastic** - please pop over to the forums ( .com) to see all the terrific stories that were written. It's worth it, I promise! Thanks as always to you wonderful people for reading and reviewing. Hope you enjoy

_A Year of Gold and Rubies_

* * *

"Marvelous. Absolutely marvelous." Her host balanced the delicate paper crane in his broad hands a moment longer, then placed it carefully into the waiting glass box.

She received the praise with endurance rather than enjoyment, much like the bitter almond tree that bent stoically under its burden of sodden leaves. It had been a wet summer, too wet for the badly-needed harvest, and the rain had fallen thick and heavy all day.

As the man launched into yet another interminable rendition of the races he – or rather, his charioteers and his horses – had won, she tilted her glass to watch the candlelight sparkle through its facets. The black currant cordial pooled gummily in the corner, a dark contrast to the glittering crystal.

She had nothing against horses, but not even the quinquennial Elysion Games could make her interested in chariot racing. It was just her luck that having declined several invitations and fended off nagging and outright begging from the emperor-elect himself to attend the games, the senator's request had been for her to preserve the memory of his prize stallion coming first in the final race.

Although she hadn't set foot in the circus, the roar of the crowds still rang in her ears, the sun's glare lingered in her eyes, and the dust kicked up by the chariots and horses made her drain her glass. The cordial was not particularly effective at quenching her thirst, and she longed to be gone.

"The hour grows late," she said bluntly the next time the senator paused for breath.

"Yes, of course. I apologize for keeping you."

A servant came forward to offer her a small but heavy velvet bag on a silver tray. As she started to pour the shining pentagram coins into her purse, the senator lifted a manicured hand to stop her. "Please, keep it, with my compliments."

She sighed inwardly, knowing her refusal would make him uncomfortable. If she didn't follow at least the minimal forms and graces, he would hesitate before commissioning her services again.

"Thank you, Senator. I appreciate the gesture – what beautiful handiwork," she said politely, taking care to sound admiring but not overly awed. They both knew that for a man of his station, it was a mere trifle – entirely appropriate, but still a trifle. It would have cost a journeyman an entire month's wages.

Airily, he said, "Merely a token of my gratitude."

But a moment later his voice grew serious, and he took her hand boldly. "_Memoria_, you know if you agreed to work for me and only me, I would give you your weight in gold and rubies. You would have the greatest place of honor in my household. Nothing but the finest silks would ever touch your skin again."

Offers like these were commonplace to her, but she, like they, knew their clamoring bids fell short. Her gifts could not be counted out in pentagram coins, weighed like ingots, or measured out in bolts and reams. Better than anyone, she knew the worth of her gifts. They had cost her dearly.

* * *

Later that afternoon, after she had changed out of the fine crimson robes she had worn to the senator's home, she stopped off at a temple. The sweet fumes from the dish of scented oil burning on the altar wound through her hair as she upended her purse over a large brass urn. The heavy weight of the coins sliding through her fingers was the best feeling she'd had all day. She had kept back just enough for the week's marketing and a small contribution to her emergency fund.

As she left the temple, she brushed against the fig tree planted by the side entrance and was promptly showered by its wealth of droplets. She wiped the water from her face and headed eagerly towards the comfort of her own hearth.

* * *

She cleared the table, placing the lamp on the mantle and removing the bowl of red grapes, figs, and pomegranates, before seating herself on a tasseled rug. The fire was warm against her back. The rest of the lamps had been extinguished, and its leaping flames cast the only light in the room as their shadows danced blackly on the unadorned walls.

A single square of pristine white paper rested on the wooden table. She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. Fearlessly, she made the first crisp fold, running her fingernail smoothly along the crease. The rest of the folds were made in the same deliberate fashion. She had been making cranes since she was a child, and by the time she was seven years of age, she had never needed to undo a fold, let alone start over entirely.

It was hours before the finished crane lit on the polished wood. Over the course of the night, color had spread through the white paper, shading down its spread wings and over the delicately pointed head and tail.

She opened her eyes to inspect her work. She didn't touch it even though, like all the others she made, the paper would neither stain nor rip now that she had infused it with her memories. The crane was poppy red, with silver accents picking out the eyes and feathering the stationary wings. A few spots of purple, the shade of the darkest plums, dappled its back and underside.

It had been a fairly good year, then. After her mother's death, the fragile pinks of sunrise had disappeared, replaced by the garnet of dark wines and bruise purple. Over time, they had been replaced by brooding maroons and blazing vermilions. It was still rare for blush rose or coral to color her memories, but the succession of gradually brightening scarlet cranes stood as testament to her emergence from mourning.

At last she rose and stretched, then donned the elbow-length gloves she always wore in public. She picked up the crane and placed it among the crimson dozen standing on a shelf above her bed. All of them were touched with silver – all but one, which looked like it had been carved of rubies and gold.

As always, she glanced at it with consternation and unwilling fascination. No matter how many times she sifted through memories from that year, her fourteenth, she couldn't figure out what was so distinctive about them. She had long since given up and rarely revisited those memories now, but the puzzle remained a nagging question in the back of her mind.

Turning away from the shelf, she ran the brush quickly through her shining black hair, putting it into two long braids before she swept the ashes from the hearth, blew out the last lamp, and went to bed.

* * *

As usual, she appeared in court hooded and masked for her protection. The shapeless cloak was large enough to be worn by a man twice her size, but he knew its unremarkable gray folds hid a slender figure whose head came up just past his chin. If he were able to stand close to her, so close that her hair would fall across his cheek like a silk curtain, his breath would stir that curtain as gently as the night breezes.

He had come to know many things about her. She was a senator's daughter, although she was estranged from her father and his family. She took wealthy clients only to pay her bills and fill the temple alms jars. She rarely cooked; in fact, he wasn't sure she knew how to cook, but she brewed tea twice a day, every day.

He too, was hooded and cloaked, and his blue eyes watched the proceedings avidly behind a bronze mask that covered the upper half of his face. He was not alone in this desire for anonymity. Many of those who attended the court proceedings also hid their faces, ashamed of their association with the guilty or the sordid. Today only a handful of women were masked, but he had attended trials where nearly all the attendees went faceless.

The first few cases were unremarkable. The usual disputes between business partners, laborers and employers, landlords and tenants, and families about to be joined by marriage were resolved over the course of the day. The _memorias'_ actions had been ritualized for centuries and hardly differed from case to case or court to court. If they been sitting in a higher court, the basic motions would not have been much altered, only conducted with more flourish. Still, this was the part of the trial that held the most interest for him. He paid close attention through to the last case of the day.

The two jurists presented their clients' cases before the magistrate, who then summarized the rival claims and had the parties confirm that they agreed with this representation. A pentagram coin was tossed, and if it landed on the handsome profile of the young emperor-elect, the memory of the accuser was recorded first. If it landed on the side with the triple rose, the memory of the accused was taken first.

_Memoria_ could and did work with many materials, although it took a very skilled _memoria_ to work with items that had been touched and shaped by other human hands. She was the only _memoria _who worked in this lowest circuit of courts who used paper, and she always stored the memories in paper cranes. The clerks had long since discovered it was futile to try to convince her to use a more functional – and dignified – shape. There was no lost love between her and the bureaucracy.

The first man knelt before the magistrate, his hands placed circumspectly behind him. The _memoria_ rose from her seat and removed her long gloves before carefully placing her fingertips at the man's temples. The time this process required varied; he gathered through observation that it took longer with those who tried to conceal their memories from her. When she stepped away, she swiftly took up one of the two pieces of white paper and folded it into the familiar, dainty shape of a crane. Then she repeated the process with the other party, and soon the two cranes were placed before the magistrate. He and three jurists, one for each of the jurists and an impartial one assigned to the court, viewed the memories imbued in the paper before he pronounced his judgment.

The last case of the day was an ugly one, between two feuding families, and it was reflected in the black, red, and green hues streaking through the cranes. Neither family was particularly happy with the ruling, and he lost sight of the _memoria_ in the ruckus that followed as the guards rushed in to keep order. Her work here was done, and so was his.

* * *

When he slipped out of the courthouse by a side entrance, he noticed a gray-clad figure leaving with a single guard. He knew where she was headed – one of the communal bathhouses, where she could change out of her court robes. It would be nearly impossible to determine her identity, for hundreds of people entered and exited the bathhouses at this hour. But he already knew where she lived and was about to go on his way when four drunken youths, who had been ejected from the courthouse in the middle of the last trial, slunk past him.

He shadowed them discreetly, although they were loud and unruly enough that it was almost unnecessary to take such precautions. The _memoria_ and her escort walked at a brisk pace several streets ahead, unaware of their followers. He drew himself to full alertness when he heard the summons-whistle of the city guard. From the sound of it, another riot had broken out in the market square, and they were calling all available guards to assist them.

After a brief exchange with the _memoria_, the guard took off, and she changed direction, taking a path that would leave her away from the riot. The youths moved closer, and they took their opening when she reached a narrow alleyway.

A short and bulky man built like a gladiator boar grabbed her by the arm, somewhat hampered by her voluminous sleeves. The rest of them circled around, jeering and calling insults. Quick to spot trouble, the handful of ragged beggars who had been huddled in the alleyway hurried to leave.

"Stupid wench!"

"Think you're so smart, think you're better than us."

Their leader stepped forward, spewing his foul breath and threats in her face. Even then, she didn't flinch, didn't struggle, just watched him coolly and ignored the others. "You're going to put our father and uncles in jail, are you? You'd better tell them you were wrong, that you lied, if you know what's good for you."

Her silence and lack of fear infuriated them, and the pushing and shoving became rougher. He decided it was time to make his presence known to them.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, moving to block one end of the alleyway.

"Get lost," one of the youths snarled.

Ignoring him, he strode forward and said pleasantly, "Assaulting a _memoria_ will get you drawn and quartered. Any and all memories of you will be destroyed, and within a generation, you'll be entirely forgotten."

"This isn't your business, outlander," the leader sneered boldly. But the rest of his gang looked uncertain, and the bravado born of anger, drink, and a thwarted fight was deserting them.

He shrugged. "If that's how you want it."

Quick as a snake, his hand flashed out – the left one, the unexpected one. The contact flung his opponent against the rough stone wall, and in the next moment, he had dumped another thug in the dust. He had only to look towards the other two men before they fled. The remaining two struggled to their feet and followed, casting the seething glances of the defeated over their shoulders.

The _memoria _had her back turned to him, and her head was bowed.

"Are you hurt?" he asked. He thought he had intervened in time, but she must be shaken.

She didn't answer, and he stepped around her to see for himself. As he did so, he felt himself trod on something soft.

He stepped back and she darted forward, quick to reaffix the mask to her face and draw her hood over her disheveled hair. She wasn't fast enough, however, to prevent him from getting a look at her stubborn chin and creamy skin or the scratch along her cheek.

They stood close enough for him to see the luxuriously long lashes framing her jewel-colored eyes. They glittered at him angrily behind her mask, but as far as he could see, there were no tears. Before she yanked her robe back in place, he saw the imprints of broad fingers bruising her forearms.

"Thank you for your help," she said finally.

She had never spoken in court. Her voice was lower than he expected, with a rich and velvety smoothness.

He shrugged, keeping his tone light and casual. "I was just doing my civic duty."

"You aren't from here," she countered. She, like the others, had heard the faint trace of an accent in his voice, the way he slid over some consonants and lengthened the vowels. He was excellent at languages, but this particular accent had always escaped him.

He smiled disarmingly. "Does that mean I can't behave as properly as the natives?"

"No, of course not." Beneath her mask, she flushed. The wars had gone on too long with too few victories, and anti-foreigner sentiment was rising despite Endy's best efforts to discourage it. She did not want to be taken as a xenophobe.

" You took a risk walking this way all on your own," he remarked.

Stiffly, she said, "I can take care of myself."

She didn't mention the fistful of sleep powder she had dropped back into its vial when he had come to her aid. It might not have worked out so neatly had she been on her own, but she didn't take kindly to lecturing from strangers, even inordinately helpful ones.

He gave her a sharp look before reverting to gallantry. "I'm sure you can. But won't you allow me to accompany you awhile longer?"

She considered for a moment before she agreed, albeit somewhat ungraciously. They spoke little on the way to the baths; she did not ask for his name, and he did not offer it. They parted ways at the entrance to the dressing rooms, and she managed to thank him again, with more sincerity than her first attempt. When she emerged several hours later, she glanced around casually. Her rescuer, whoever he was, had gone.

* * *

The incident disturbed her more than she was willing to admit, and she was glad when her weekly shift at the courthouse was over. The captain of the guard had been dismayed to hear about it. He had promptly handed down the order that the _memoria_ were not to be left alone until they had reached a place of safety.

But she knew, and he knew, and everyone but the most naïve person knew, that incidents like these were commonplace, in spite of the severe punishments ordained for accosting a _memoria_. This wasn't a court in the wealthy part of the city. The supply of able-bodied soldiers was low because of the war. There was a reason none but the least skilled _memoria_ sought employment in the lower courts. It was a thankless task; the salary was low, and it was often dangerous.

She was not an unskilled _memoria_. The emperor-elect himself had wanted her to be his personal _memoria_. But no matter how many times Endymion asked, she always told him the same thing. He had the best in the empire at his disposal – the best except for her, he always interrupted – but the people she spent her days with had no one.

Watching this oft-repeated interplay, Cassian would smile his serious smile, saying nothing. He didn't defend her choice, but neither did he try to help Endymion to convince her, even when he was called upon to do so. She knew that Cassian had come from streets very much like the ones where she now spent her days, perhaps those very same streets, before rising to his current exalted position as the commander of Endymion's guard.

She wasn't going to tell them what happened, for it would only add to Endy's worries and Cassian's frustration that they could not provide her with better protection. But it weighed heavily on her mind, and she did not want to appear even the least bit distracted in their presence. Instead of heading to the outskirts of the city, where Endy would be entertaining to cap off a long week of arguing with the Senate, she found herself standing before the Imperial Library.

Scholars of all ages, a sizeable proportion of whom were foreigners, flowed in and out of its doors. Just inside the entrance to the airy halls, she heard muffled voices raised in excitement, exasperation, and true fury emanating from the debating halls. Further along, the sounds of quills scratching busily against parchment blanketed her, giving the impression of cheerful industry.

She walked to a particular hall where the ceiling was lined with lapis and gold tiles and the walls were scarcely visible behind scores of beautifully-drawn maps. As she had expected, a petite young woman who had gathered her dark hair carelessly into a coiled knot was bent over an unfurled scroll. Many more scrolls and books were stacked beside it, and her expression was one of abstracted pleasure.

She approached and cleared her throat once or twice before the scholar looked up, blinking her wide blue eyes.

"Rhianon!" she whispered, breaking into a delighted smile. Although she had been deeply engrossed in her work, she quickly gathered her things after giving a quick nod to the young man who shared her table.

As they exited, Rhi cast a backwards glance at the youth with the cropped brown curls who seemed to be staring after them wistfully. "Is that a new friend of yours?"

"Who? Oh, you mean Gregor? He came all the way from University at Ermon to study here," she said enthusiastically, "and he seems quite engrossed in his work. He's interested in foresight and the gift of prophecy.

She tried not to roll her eyes. Aemilia, so clever about so many things, was terrible at picking up on any sign of male interest. It was clear that Aemilia had not noticed Gregor's definitely unscholarly interest in her, and to mention it would only embarrass her.

They sat down to steaming cups of fragrant mint tea and honey-drizzled pastries, and Rhi asked after her studies. Aemilia's interests were wide-ranging, but her current studies focused on the development of mathematical and medicinal knowledge. She spent hours poring over the memories of Pythagoras and Hippocrates, and she was coming to be recognized as one of Aurelius's most promising protégés. Although they were not acquainted, Endy, who was also interested in medicine, had read several of her papers and praised them as both groundbreaking and highly readable.

In earlier years, Rhi had spent a good deal of time in the Library of Memories herself as part of her training. She had observed the techniques of the _memoria_ who had preceded her, learning to tell which ones had a particular gift for capturing the depth and breadth of human experience and which ones relayed only fuzzy distortions of what they or others had seen.

It was here that Rhi had discovered _memoria_ could be both deceitful and deceived. There were times, her tutor had showed her, that _memoria_ had been tricked into recording false memories. Sometimes, the people whose memories they were preserving actually believed they had witnessed events that had never happened. Other times, they purposely set out to deceive.

Only very skilled _memoria _could always tell truth from lie. Domitia, who had been her tutor and the emperor's own _memoria_, had not thought it possible to cut through the iron bonds of self-deception, to reclaim from hazy forgetfulness the memories that had been lost to their owners, to dredge from the deepest unconscious observations that had escaped conscious notice – not until she had met Rhianon.

Rhi knew the texture and taste of true memories the way a master weaver knew the warp and weft of cloth. All of the memories she drew were true, with none of the dross but all of the magic in life. _Memoria_ often claimed they never lied, in fact, that they _couldn't_ lie. Usually that wasn't the case, but of course it was good for business to say so. But for Rhi, it was truly impossible. She had tried, just the once, to record a false memory.

Fragile after a pregnancy that had ended in a stillbirth, her mother had come to the conclusion that her husband was being unfaithful to her. She had demanded to know his whereabouts and insisted that Rhi determine whether he was lying to her. He was a proud man, used to getting his way, and had refused until she became so hysterical that they feared for her health.

No matter how hard she tried, Rhi hadn't been able to distill anything but the truth from her father's memories. Rhi had seen every detail of his infidelities for herself, and so had her mother. She had been eleven years old. A year later, her mother had died, never quite able to recover from her grief and heartbreak.

"Rhi? Are you all right?"

She came to the present to find Aemilia peering anxiously into her face. She forced a smile, which became easier as the bright sunlight pouring through the oculus chased the old memories into the distance. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry – I didn't mean to drift off like that."

Aemilia sat back, still frowning. "You work too hard."

Rhi managed a dry laugh. "Coming from you? With the number of candles you go through each night, I'm surprised your dormitory hasn't run out!"

"Well… I've begun laying in my own stores, as a matter of fact." The teasing smile on Rhi's face grew, but Aemilia decided her friend needed further cheering up. "There's another new scholar in residence. He arrived around the same time as Gregor, and Aurelius has taken a liking to him."

"And have you taken a liking to him?" Rhi inquired.

Aemilia hedged. "He's very intelligent, as well as articulate. Terribly self-assured. He walks around as if he's been here for years instead of a few weeks. The boys alternately idolize him or fear that he'll slice them to pieces in the debating hall."

"What does this ferocious yet nameless scholar look like?"

"He has blond hair and green eyes. About this tall. He's quite handsome, I suppose. His name is Seneca. The girls are being abominably silly around him. I think it's all rather distracting," Aemilia declared, finishing on a disapproving note.

Rhi sipped her tea, resolving to ask Aemilia about him at least once a week.

* * *

Desperate fingers plucked at her sleeve. "Please, please, _memoria_," the woman wept, "if he's found guilty, he'll be executed. We have six children. None of them are grown. I'll never be able to raise them by myself if he goes. We'll all be on the streets in a matter of months."

"I'm so sorry," Rhi said. No matter how many times she repeated it, the words brought no comfort to either of them. The sick feeling in her stomach grew with each passing moment.

"It was an accident, just a brawl; they happen every night at the Golden Chariot – they were both drunk, and he insulted him – he didn't know he would hit his head when he fell. He's a good man, _memoria_. He never meant to kill anyone.

"Please, won't you help? Can't you make it so – he wasn't the one who shoved him, no one saw, it was too dark and crowded–"

"I can't," she said, and the words were faint in her own ears. "I don't know how. I've never been able to. I'm sorry."

She looked around helplessly, but there was only shared grief and condemnation in the onlookers' eyes. At last the woman's sister led her away, and Rhi was able to make her own escape.

She was melancholy the entire day, and the evening hours dragged by with unutterable slowness. She lay awake, unable to fall asleep though it was past midnight. At last, she rose to retrieve and unlock a small wooden box. Inside were dozens of lavender cranes touched with lacy white patterns. These were the memories her mother had bequeathed to her, happy memories from before and after the time when Rhi was born.

She allowed herself to go through them only rarely, knowing that otherwise she would spend her days living in the past. Tonight, though, she gorged herself, watching her mother as a beautiful young woman, rejoicing over the birth of her daughter, taking Rhi by the hand and dancing with her on a balcony drenched in moonlight and music.

Her eyes were damp when she put away the box, then went to look over her own shelf of memories. She made them not because she anticipated passing them on to a child, but for herself. It was the peculiar curse of _memoria_. They who could preserve others' memories found that their own were particularly susceptible to erosion over time. Rhi would never forget her mother or her father, or the happiest or saddest memories of her life, but if she were to go away for a few years, she might not remember her acquaintances and neighbors when she came back. If she went ten years without seeing her, she might even forget Emilia. Her teacher Domitia, who had once been _memoria_ to the emperor, no longer remembered her.

Her fears of the same thing happening to her fled when she stood before the shelf, replaced by an even stronger sense of dread. The shelf was empty. All the cranes, all the memories from the past thirteen years of her life had disappeared.

* * *

He paced the streets restlessly, circling her house again and again with growing urgency. He had been a fool. He should have taken the crane the first chance he had. Instead, he had bided his time, waiting for the right moment and growing ever more fascinated by this fascinating woman. He had even begun to wonder whether he could trust her with his secret, rather than stealing off with hers.

Now Seneca was on his trail, and his enemies were close. Too close, and he had put her in mortal danger. His best chance was to take the crane and convince Seneca and the others that he had been mistaken in looking here in the first place, to lead them away from her on a wild goose chase. It was so much riskier than his original plan, which had been unbelievably perilous to begin with, but he had no other choice.

He paused under her window, still illuminated by candlelight at this late hour. Normally she was asleep by now, and he could have been in and out in the blink of an eye. The sound of her quiet sobs caught his ear, piercing his heart. He looked in the window, wondering what was the cause of her distress.

When he spotted the empty shelf, he swore.

* * *

Rhi looked up to find a stranger at her window. Before she could scream, he said quickly, "Wait! Please! I mean you no harm, Rhianon. I swear it."

She seized the long, sharp iron rod by the fireplace and leveled it at him, eyeing him warily. The voice tugged at her memory, even if his face didn't.

He threw back his hood to reveal waving blond hair and eyes of the brightest blue. "Don't you remember me?"

"I don't know who you are, and if you don't explain what you are doing here, I will wake every single person on this street."

He held a bronze mask up to his face for a moment, then lowered it again. "What about now?"

Her eyes widened in sudden recognition. "You're the man from the alleyway."

"Yes."

"Why are you here?" she demanded.

He looked around the street. It was dark and empty, but he could not discuss his business through the window. "Please let me in. I promise I won't hurt you, but I can't talk about it out on the street like this."

Her laugh was soft and disbelieving. "You must think I'm a simpleton."

"I think I know what happened to your cranes."

The rod was suddenly less than a hand's width from his left eye. "Give them back to me right now."

He managed to stand his ground, watching her levelly. "If I had them, do you think I would still be here?"

She eased it back, but didn't lower it. "Then tell me what you know."

"If I do that out here on the street, it may put you in great danger – not by my hand," he added.

Rhi was not entirely sure what made her trust him, but at last, she opened the door. "Sit here," she ordered, pointing at the most uncomfortable chair she owned.

He sat, eyeing the iron rod that was still being pointed at him. "Aren't your arms getting tired?"

"Who has my cranes, and why did they take them?" she demanded.

He grimaced. "You wouldn't know him, I think. As for why… it's somewhat of a long story, so please bear with me. You are perhaps aware that the prince of Dhamask is dead?"

She nodded curtly. Dhamask was one of the rival empires they were at war with. Endy, of course, had particular interest in who was next in line for the Dhamaski throne.

"There are only two real contenders for the throne. A cousin and the deceased prince's half-brother. You may know that in Dhamask, we don't have _memoria_. Without definitive proof of the half-brother's parentage, there will be a long, bloody battle among the rival factions and a handful of Dhamaski generals who are all too interested in seizing more power for themselves.

"It might interest you to know that the half-brother – his name is Icarus – is against the wars. If he is named heir, he will urge his grandfather to begin negotiations for peace."

"That's very nice," Rhi said sarcastically, "but how does any of that have anything to do with my cranes?"

"Not just your cranes. It also involves you. In your fourteenth year, you nearly ran someone over in a chariot. A boy about your age. Do you remember?"

She did. She had been over those memories many, many times, trying to figure out what event of importance had happened during that year. At time, she had still been living in her father's household. She had taken the chariot out in defiance of his orders.

She remembered a youth with a head of golden curls yelling at her as she pulled the horses to a stop. He had been covered in dirt from the street, and in his dusty face, his eyes shone bluer than the summer sky.

"I remember. His father was with him, and he was terribly angry."

He clasped his hands together tightly. "Yes."

Rhi continued, "He was kinder when he saw that I was truly sorry. He told me he had been frightened for his son."

He let out a long, slow breath. "That boy was Icarus."

"The illegitimate half-brother?"

"Indeed. The father who was so angry with you was the prince of Dhamask. He had taken his illegitimate son here so he could get to know him in secret, far away from Dhamask and his wife and son."

He regarded her with a sober gaze. "I believe this is the only definitive evidence that will allow Icarus to take the throne."

"And now it's gone?" she asked.

He nodded. "I believe one of the cousin's top agents has taken them. It's my fault. He was following me and I led him to you, but it was an accident. I never meant to put you in danger."

Her eyes narrowed. "I suppose you work for Icarus – or one of the generals."

"I am Icarus."

His resemblance to the boy was obvious to her now. "You have been following me around and watching my house. You were planning to steal from me. And now you tell me my life is danger, and it's all because of you?"

Before she knew quite what she was doing, she stepped forward and slapped him hard across the face. "Give me one reason I shouldn't summon the guards and have you thrown in the dungeons."

His cheek was reddening rapidly, but he didn't make any move towards her. Quietly, he said, "I'd be dead within the week, but I don't suppose that would matter very much to you."

It did. She couldn't figure out why it did, and she wasn't willing to admit it to him, anyway.

"I deserve every bit of your anger. But I'm here, telling you all of this now, in hopes that your life at least will be saved. You need to go to the palace, explain to Endymion everything I have told you tonight, and stay in the safest place they can find.

"In the meantime, I will do everything in my power to recover those memories and convince the other interested parties that they are worthless to them, that I was mistaken. I hope that will make them lose interest in you. If I can, I will lead them as far away from you as possible."

Rhi tilted her head, regarding him curiously. "Why would you do that? Why do you care what happens to me? You could just have gone after them and left me to die."

Icarus tried to smile jauntily. "I fear that would make a very poor foundation for someone who wishes to be a more enlightened ruler."

"That's not enough," she insisted.

"Isn't it?" he asked lightly. "It'll have to be enough. Time is of the essence, and we must be on our way. I'll take you as far as the palace, but from then on my presence would be more of a danger than protection for you."

They spoke little during their hurried walk to the palace. Rhi was tense, looking suspiciously at every shadow. She could tell that he, too, was concentrating on their surroundings.

Just before they reached the palace gates, she asked suddenly, "Why didn't you ask a _memoria_ to store your memories?"

Through the darkness, she saw the quick white flash of his wry smile. "Well, not only is it currently illegal for any Dhamaski to be in the city, but I think the moment they looked through my memories and discovered I was the enemy of the empire, things would not have worked out."

He paused, then added, "But I did come close, once, to telling someone my secret. I thought I was going crazy. Here I was, believing I could convince you, one of the closest confidantes of the emperor-elect, to help me. I knew it was foolish, but that hope… well, anyway, that was why I hesitated to just take the crane from you the first chance I had. Perhaps it would have been better for us both that way."

"Perhaps," Rhi agreed. "But then we would never have met again, would we? And I have always wondered what was so special about that crane," she added.

Icarus coughed, then said quickly, "In Dhamaski, we don't have _memoria_. But we believe that the colors of red and gold stand for true love. If a girl gives you a red and gold ribbon, she is declaring her love for you. If a boy dreams of a girl dressed in red and gold, he's meant to marry her."

He looked down at his feet before continuing, "After we met, eight years ago, I dreamed of you. Every night for an entire year, my dreams were only of rubies and gold and you."

Quietly, Rhi asked, "Will I ever see you again?"

He didn't mention that Seneca was wily and highly skilled with a knife or that the others on his trail were even less principled than him. It would be a miracle if he made it out of the capital alive.

"I hope so. You won't forget me again, will you?"

"I'll remember you. I promise." She took from her pocket the smallest crane she had ever made. It was radiantly blue and gold and held just the one memory of the first time they had met.

She held it out to him, and he moved close to her, so close that she could feel the heat from his body, his cheek against her hair, the warmth of his breath against her skin. He bent to kiss her, quick as the shooting star that raced across the sky, and then, like the star, he was gone.


End file.
